


Don't Ask, Don't Tell

by midnightblack07



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:56:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1908384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightblack07/pseuds/midnightblack07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The second time it happens she's sure they've both lost what's left of their minds...</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Ask, Don't Tell

**Author's Note:**

> Set at some indefinite point post 1x11. I should probably note that I did not expect to love this show and these characters and more or less ship all the things the way I do *sighs*

+

 

The second time it happens she's sure they've both lost what's left of their minds.

He follows her into the woods, effectively negating her purpose for coming out here in the first place with the way she can feel his presence like a weight against her back, the way she can hear his footsteps in the crunch of the dry leaves he traps under his feet.

_Autumn_ , she knows they once called this season, and she wonders if the moniker will eventually come to mean anything to her (to any of them, she thinks). 

"Raven, you know you shouldn't be out here alone," he calls to her, his voice more tired than it is reproachful and she thinks she'd have pitied him if she had it left in her.

"Yeah, well, I guess I could say the same to you," she calls back without turning her head or breaking her steady stride.

She doesn't stop and he doesn't speed his steps and after a while it's _almost_ as if she's alone (which is all she wanted in the first place, really).

Except, there's the memory of his calloused hands gliding across the smooth skin of her back, clutching at her hips, near frantic in their need. There's the sound of his panting breaths, his declaration that he wasn't _that guy_ and his contradictions of the very same (because a part of her, small and shadowed as it may be, thinks he is in fact _that guy_ in more ways than either of them is likely to admit). 

It seems like ages before he finally catches up to her, encloses her arm in one large hand almost (but not quite) hard enough to make her flinch, and turns her to face him.

"I think this is far enough."

It isn't a question so she doesn't provide an answer. She makes to turn away instead, but he won't let her and it's mere seconds before she's seething.

"Let go," she bites out, and it almost surprises her that he actually does, though he doesn't budge an inch otherwise.

"Look, I get it okay--"

"I doubt that," she snaps before turning away, only to be brought back again.

This time she shoves him away, causes him to stumble from what she's sure is surprise more so than anything else.

"You want to end up speared to a tree? Hung up as live bait?" He nearly shouts, and there's a twisted satisfaction in making him lose what little patience he has.

"And if I do, what do you care?"

_I don't_ , she expects him to say, before he heads back to camp, done with this--done with _her_.

She doesn't expect him to push her up against the nearest tree and kiss her hard enough to bruise.

She doesn't expect to respond with equal fervor, desperately clutching at the lapels of his jacket, wrapping her legs around his hips and pressing close enough to feel his hardness against her center.

The part of her mind that's still given to rationality, dim as it is at the moment, screams _this is reckless_ , more reckless than her aimlessly trekking across the woods solo.

She knows she's seconds away from losing sense of anything but his hands and his lips and the things they're doing to her, can feel it coming when his hand cups her now bare breast and she regains her footing only to discard what's left of her clothing. But she doesn't stop it.

It should unnerve her that he has this effect on her, that anyone other than the boy she spent her entire life loving and needing like nothing and no one else can reduce her to this panting, burning mess. 

He's rougher than Finn, in a way she loathes to admit she may actually like.

She supposes it's almost inevitable that he would be, there's a bitterness to his words and a sharpness to his edges that she's seen in few people other than herself.

And yet, there's still a thoughtfulness to him that tempers it, dulls the blade so that it's almost, but never quite, benign.

It's there in the way he tests her readiness with his fingers, moving them in such a way that it takes almost everything she has left to stifle her moans (and still, she fails). It's there in the way he gives her a few moments to adjust when he's finally inside her before rocking against her, building a steady pace that has her back scraping against the bark of the tree--that hits that spot inside her that makes what she's certain her back will probably feel like tomorrow worth it.

His being bit rougher than what she's accustomed to doesn't stop her from giving as good as she gets, from grinding down to meet his thrusts and pressing his hand against her center when she feels her climax building.

When they're both through, so wrung out she wonders for a moment how they'll manage to make it back to camp, she turns away from him as she pulls her clothes back on.

She can feel his eyes like a burn on her back (just as she did the first time), but he has the sense to keep the silence, leaving nothing but the sounds of rustling clothing and crunching leaves between them. She's not the kind to expect soft words of reassurance from people who aren't Finn, and he's not the kind to give them.

He doesn't ask her if it helped this time, and she doesn't tell him that it may have.

 

+


End file.
